


Counterfeit

by truejaku (hereonourstreet)



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1446535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereonourstreet/pseuds/truejaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>weerus reflects on life. family. penis</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counterfeit

            Virus doesn’t often feel regret, but if he could take back one thing, it would be the sarcastic, “ _Sure, baby brother_ ,” he drawled at Trip years ago. Trip acts as if it’s some big joke, as if his constant, “ _Yes, big brother,” “No, big brother,” “I agree, big brother,” “Good night, big brother,” “Are you scared, big brother?” “Then why are you trembling, big brother?”_ is a reference, as if they have some sort of inside joke between them, but Virus has always been the more intelligent of the two. He sees what Trip is doing.

            Trip is reminding him. Trip is never going to let the idea that they could be counterfeit brothers die. Trip is improvising a family that Virus never wanted.

            Virus tries to be annoyed – more than tries, in fact. His nerves sizzle every time Trip misquotes him or asks him to tie his shoe. They fry completely when Trip pokes at him, literally or otherwise, and he tends to lose his cool the second he realizes he’s somewhat endeared to all these things.

            Virus no longer recalls the first storm he and Trip weathered, not completely at least, but he knows he did something embarrassingly emotive and Trip had caught on immediately. He remembers Trip’s hair had still been bright red; it matched the blood that spilled from his own lip as he bit it too hard while anticipating the loud clap that would soon follow the bright flash that had just lit up the pitch-black room. It had been past lights-out, and the lamps in Toue’s rooms were regulated not to turn back on past a certain hour (Virus was never sure when that was, but he gets inexplicably tired around ten p.m. every night, so he thinks he has an idea). Trip snuck in. Virus doesn’t know if Toue was aware that Trip did that often. Toue probably didn’t care.

            Virus asked Trip to leave, but instead Trip sat at the foot of his bed in silence for another thirty minutes, letting Virus curl up on his side and smash his pillow against his ears. Virus had fallen asleep by the time Trip crawled up the bed and cradled him from behind; it wasn’t like he would have particularly minded if Trip had done that when he was awake, though he appreciated the assumption that it wasn’t something they were going to talk about the next day.

            When Trip bends over and puts his elbows on the kitchen table to hold his head in his hands and purrs, “Why are you so scared of thunderstorms, _big brother_?” Virus always ignores him. He’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, so Virus assumes he’s going to bed soon so he just has to wait him out.

            When Trip calls from the kitchen doorway, “What are you doing awake, _big brother_?” Virus doesn’t answer. He convinces himself it’s because he refuses to stoop to Trip’s stupidity, and not because he’s paralyzed, vocal cords and all, by the sound of rumbling thunder approaching their small cottage in the middle of nowhere. He wonders momentarily if Aoba’s voice could cure phobias and something about the fleeting image of Aoba’s face both calms his nerves for the briefest of seconds and causes him to grip the counter by the sink he’s standing in front of even tighter.

            When Trip runs his fingers down Virus’s sides and lifts his t-shirt up before sinking a hand into his sweatpants and grabbing his cock, Virus holds back a shudder and digs his nails into the granite. He looks out the window to see a few rain droplets hit the porch and when lightning splits the sky, he quickly lowers his head to the sink again. Trip starts stroking him and Virus lets it happen. He lets Trip fold his sweatpants down enough to bring his dick out, lets Trip grip it tight at the base and roll his hand up slowly several times, finally dipping his fingers into the pre-come that leaks out and smearing it down his length. He lets Trip breath in his ear, rough and jagged and childlike, uninhibited and animalistic even though he’s not the one getting off –

            Then he feels Trip’s own hard dick press into the small of his back and he lets him roll his hips into him, lets him lower himself so that he can rut his clothed cock against Virus’s ass, and lets himself come against the kitchen sink a few minutes later. He lets Trip keep humping him like a dog until he comes into his own sweatpants and then he lets Trip laugh, a low, husky grunt.

            He doesn’t let Trip say, “Better, _big brother_?” without shoving his shoulders backwards into Trip’s chest and sending him into the kitchen island behind him. He pinches the bridge of his nose and fixes his glasses.

            “The storm hasn’t even arrived yet.”

            He turns around to see a bashful blond adjust his sweatpants and mumble, “Whose fault is that? Is it my fault you came so quick?”

            Virus folds his arms.

            “If I were really your big brother, this would be very disturbing.”

            Trip grins and he’s all teeth – a smile too big for his face. It takes all of Virus’s energy not to call him a daft man-child, and he goes back to bed. It’s almost two a.m. and he needs to get some sleep but twenty minutes after he’s adjusted himself in bed, blanket wrapped around his body and pillow over his ear, he lets Trip slip into his room, crawl into his bed, and cradle him from behind.

            A few weeks later it starts raining while they’re out “attending to business,” as Trip insists to refer to it as, and Virus catches the sidelong glance he throws in his direction. It’s not concerned or worried; it’s just a glance. If Trip has ever been alarmed for Virus, he’s never shown it visibly.

            Trip suddenly points downward and then rolls his eyes away. Virus frowns.

            “No.”

            “I might slip.”

            Virus doesn’t feel like arguing. He leans down, careful not to let his knee touch the dirt and soil his suit, and ties Trip’s shoe for him.

            A couple days later they’re strolling through the city and Virus is glad to see that the weather forecast calls for sun for the foreseeable future. He entertains the idea to check out how the Dry Juice territory is going when Trip jerks his head suddenly down the street. Virus cocks his own just slightly.

            “Sure,” he shrugs. They end up two streets over at Heibon, and Aoba seems happy to see them. Trip bends over and leans his elbows on the counter as he speaks to Aoba, and Virus notes that he looks just like he did a month ago in their kitchen. That’s all he notes.

            It’s a few days later when Trip says, “You didn’t talk much to Aoba-san the other day,” and Virus furrows his eyebrows.

            “Sometimes I like to let you do the talking.”

            That night they stay at their apartment in the city with the piano. Virus is sitting on the couch with his feet up when Trip hands him a glass of wine and points at his shoes. Virus ignores him, keeping his feet firmly on the couch, and Trip sets the wine bottle in the holder on the coffee table and then crosses the room and sits down on the piano bench. Virus nods off on the couch after a glass of wine and Trip’s soft piano playing. He likes to say he doesn’t dream anymore, but he does have a short vision of a foggy graveyard and a rose, but that’s too romantic to admit to so he keeps it to himself when Trip asks.

            “I told you to stop waking me up so close to my face,” Virus admonishes. He’s on his side, hands folded beneath his head and mere inches away from Trip’s inquiring lips.

            “Should I carry you to bed?”

            “I am perfectly capable of walking.”

            “Can I carry you to bed?”

            “No.”

            “Please, _big brother_?”

            “Now you definitely may not.”

            Trip grins. Virus has always noticed that Trip’s lips can split so wide that they force his eyes closed when he smiles and he’s toyed with the idea of smacking him one of these days when he’s not expecting it. He imagines that might trigger some sort of automatic reaction, though – Trip has always been the more physically brutish of them – so he refrains.

            Virus hasn’t moved from his spot. Trip hasn’t either.

            “Leave,” Virus orders.

            Trip finally stands up and Virus waits until he hears his heavy footsteps thud down the hallway and into his own room. He listens for the shutting of the door, and then he sits up on the couch and stares at the floor for a second.

            A few minutes later he crawls into Trip’s bed and cradles him from behind. Trip lets him. Virus wonders if Trip even knows the word counterfeit.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for national sibling day because they're not twins and idk i thought that was funny
> 
> tell me if u lik e the weerus
> 
> also this is first time ever on ao3 ayooo if the format is fucky im so sorry im literally an 80 year old man when it comes to new technology ugh


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